Take that rage (and sing it loud)
by The Readers Muse
Summary: Not for more than an age had the filth of Melkor been so bold. Nor their foul deeds so costly.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Tolkien's Hobbit or LOTR. Everything belongs to whoever owns them, my wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** This is the first time writing this pairing, or indeed either of the characters, so I hugely appreciate any and all feedback/constructive criticism you have to offer. This is an Elrond/Lindir fic set sometime previous to the Hobbit in terms of timeline.

**Warnings:** Expect slash, canon appropriate violence, angst, mature language, blood, guts, gore, adult babies dealing with their feelings, mild sexual content, hurt/comfort.

**Take that rage (and sing it loud)**

He fell backwards, flipping cleanly over the back of his mount as an arrow scored across his cheek. He landed in a crouch, a lithe tangle of rippling pale green silks - his circlet of office askew on his brow as the blare of an orc horn muted the forest still.

He jerked himself upright, feeling the sting of scored flesh on his left cheek, raising his head just in time for a surprised cry to curdle across his tongue. Forced to watch as the second arrow took down his mare. He recoiled, tasting blood on his tongue as the black arrow caught Alqua in mid-baulk, rearing in front of him protectively with a whinnying scream as the arrow plunged deep into her neck – falling beside him in a spray of dirt and lather.

His silks hindered his movements, making it appear as though he was the forest made flesh as he curled himself safely behind Alqua's bulk. He felt the life leave her as he raised his head, sparing a second to mourn the loss of a dear companion before keen eyes swept across the would-be battlefield.

The dwindling host of his Lord's guard was engaging the archers that'd fired on him. Long blades slicing and cleaving, whirling like liquid star-light as naked steel reflected the early morning sun. But they were outnumbered and their enemy was one with vicious intent. Loosing their Wargs on those trying to flee back to their horses, howling in triumph as they hunted them through the long grass.

_He could not see him._

_His Lord had been fighting so fiercely only a second ago, armor dented and stained._

_He'd seen as much with his own eyes._

* * *

><p>The morning fires of Imladris had not yet been lit when word of a small orc pack closing in on their eastern border reached the sentries. And like he often did, his Lord Elrond rode out to meet them, taking with him a modest company of riders. More than enough to chase off a rogue pack of urqui.<p>

He had been untroubled. More perturbed than anything that his Lord had refused to break his fast before setting out. Pausing only long enough to let him fuss with buckles of his armor, Hadhafang firm in his grip as the ellon's riding silks rippled through the door in his wake. His haste the only sign of the eagerness that lingered underneath. Emotions and drives that his Lord carefully suppressed until he had need of them.

He had long supposed that it was Peredhil in him. The Mannish blood that flowed through his veins, lending credence to the excitement he often displayed in such times. The occasional need for aggression – nay, the desire for it – that usually led to his Lord returning in a flurry of mud and blood-splattered hair, smelling of horse and wilder things as he clattered down the main bridge and circled off to the stables. Always a fierce, if not rather pleased, look upon his face when he returned.

But, as he was with everything, he was long accustomed to his Lord's habits and the baser pleasures he seemed to glean from them. Such as wielding a sword rather than the seal of his great house when there was little cause for the Lord of Imladris to take up arms. So, he kept his displeasure at the ignored plate of fruit and olive-stuffed flat-bread to a minimum as the older ellon swept out of his rooms. Calling orders to his lieutenants as the morning rays swept over the hidden valley of his forefathers.

He'd been in the stables, finishing business with the Master of Horse. Seeing to the re-shoeing of Súletál – his Lord's favourite mount – when word reached them of another sighting. This one larger in number and moving fast in the shadow of the first. Displaying the severed heads of two of their most outlying sentries – newly bonded pair – on pikes at the front of their company.

_Not for more than an age had the filth of Melkor been so bold._

_Nor their foul deeds so costly._

But there had been no other choice than to push away his grief. Burying the uncharacteristic surge of anger and helplessness that rose when he remembered dancing at their wedding feast. Singing in time as the couple weaved the binding cloth between them, displaying their marriage braids proudly as Lord Elrond gave them his blessing. Calling for a night of wine and celebration as the clouds parted and the stars shone brightly overhead.

There had been no time to summon a rider. Someone more versed in the darker arts than he. The threat to his lord was too great to suffer any delay. He had simply given orders for the entire guard to assemble and ride out, and left the rest in capable hands. He caught the dagger and sheath the sentry tossed him, swinging himself onto Alqua's back without pause, deaf to the protestations of the horse master as the words "armor" and "ill-prepared" flowed over him like water upon rock.

In truth he hadn't thought once. The fear that'd sparked through him when the sentry had clattered down the steps – a hastily scrawled missive near crushed in his hand - had been cold. A deadly winter sharp he had not felt the like of in all his years.

_His Lord was in danger._

_All else had simply paled in comparison._

* * *

><p>He had intended to catch his Lord's company before they engaged the enemy. Hoping to reach them in time with the news so they could pull back and wait for reinforcements. But instead, he'd burst through the dense brush - into a low-lying clearing he remembered well from his youth - and squarely into an orc ambush.<p>

He shrugged out of his outer robes, letting the green silk pool at his feet as he cast his gaze across the clearing, searching for that distinctive bronzed armor as one by one, his kin were felled.

The pommel of the borrowed dagger dug into his side as he left the safety of Alqua's still form. Reminding him of just how ill-prepared he was, how out of his depth, as he crouched low, stepping over the bodies of orc and elf – splashed with blood and barely recognizable in the dew as steam rose from cooling bodies.

He ducked, sheltering in the sun-burnt grass as a group of orcs advanced on his position, scenting the air suspiciously, crude bows humming with tension as the tips of his long hair kissed the warm earth.

_He must not be seen!_

He drew the blade with nerveless fingers, taking small comfort in the sound it made as somewhere across the field, a shield-maiden let go of horrible, keening cry. Falling from her horse as an orc axe buried itself deep in her spine.

He waited for a smattering of beats before parting the grass before him. Holding the dagger in front of him cautiously, free hand assuming the defensive position – palm open and level with his shoulders – the same stance the weapon masters had taught him when he'd been young.

The orcs had turned away, staring off at a point in the distance he could not-

_There!_

He nearly cried out in relief when he spotted him through the fray. The Elf Lord was hemmed in by close to two dozen of the foul creatures, the ground around him piled high with his foes as Hadhafang sliced and slashed. Even now - _especially now_ - bloody and sprayed with dirt, he was nothing short of magnificent. Every movement like liquid. As though he were parting the air around him, shivering through sky and sunlight with a delicacy that seemed almost out of place every time his sword found its mark.

_But he was outnumbered._

_And alone._

He felt his expression change. Shifting into something he did not recognize as the hilt of the dagger bit into his palm. Heartbeat a heady, base-line thrum as he rose. The angles of his face catching the sun's glare as his lips thinned, pulling back the slightest of bits to bare the blunt line of his teeth.

_No, not alone._

* * *

><p><span><strong>AN #1:** Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – There is more to come, so please stay tuned! There will be four chapters, all generally the same length and will be updated twice a week until complete.

**Reference: **

"_Alqua"_ – Is the Sindarin word for 'swan'. Originally I intended to go into more depth about Lindir's relationship with his horse, but it didn't fit into the natural flow of the story. So, at least in short, I will mention the intent behind the name. Lindir, at least in my head canon, it more of a gentle soul than a warrior. He prefers music and song and politics and thus, his mount is one that was chosen to reflect the inherent gentleness I see in him. But the thing about swans, is that while they are beautiful and graceful creatures, they are also fiercely protective and – ahem – territorial.

"_Ellon_" – term for a male Elf.

"_Imladris"_ – is the Elvish name for 'Rivendell.'

"_Urqui"_ – plural of orcs. Used in reference to describing an orc pack. Is also an elvish word that harkens back to definitions for "demon" and "monster."

"_Súletál"_ – elvish name meaning 'Wind Foot.'

"_Hadhafang"_ – the name of Lord Elrond's sword which he wields in The Hobbit/BOFA/Prologue of LOTR. It is a sword meant to be used from horseback. Arwen is seen using it in LOTR in the scene with Frodo and the Ringwraiths.

"Peredhil" – Meaning 'half-elven'. Relating to Elrond's heritage.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Tolkien's Hobbit or LOTR. Everything belongs to whoever owns them, my wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** This is the first time writing this pairing, so I hugely appreciate any and all feedback/constructive criticism you have to offer. This is an Elrond/Lindir fic set sometime previous to the Hobbit in terms of timeline.

**Warnings:** Expect slash, canon appropriate violence, angst, mature language, blood, guts, gore, adult babies dealing with their feelings, mild sexual content, hurt/comfort.

**Take that rage (and sing it loud)**

_**Chapter Two**_

He used the urqui's distraction to his benefit, ignoring their ugly laughter as they watched the fight from a safe distance. Bow strings slack as a fresh wave of their fellows sprinted through the trees on the other side of the meadow. The handful of ellon and elleth that remained turned to face them, cut off from their Lord as the orcs coiled tightly around him, thumping their spears into the hard packed earth as they screeched in triumph.

_Like a pack of dire wolves circling in for the kill, they had decided to play with their food before eating it. Like this was nothing more than some sick game. A foul twisting of the gift the Valar had given to all their children._

His lip curled, but he forced himself to move on, skirting the edge of the clearing. He would be no help if he was discovered. He was well aware of his short-comings. But he could still fight. He could still protect his Lord. That was why the timing of his part was crucial. He could not afford to be seen before he could play his hand.

_The spawn of Melkor be damned._

_His hîr vuin had need of him. And as always, he would provide._

* * *

><p>His leggings were damp with dew by the time he settled into place, tucked into a natural outcropping of tree and jutting stone. The area around him was littered with corpses. More orc than elvish, but cutting nonetheless. And for good reason, for if any point on the marshy-flats could be considered defensible, it was here. The position gave a near perfect view of both the fighting and the clearing at large. Near enough to his Lord to render assistance, while at the same time, sacrificing none of the protection of the tree-line.<p>

_The ideal staging ground for his plan._

He startled, losing some of his eerie calm as one of the still forms just off to the side of the pitted oak _moved_. He froze, dagger up. Breathing the stink of orc and spilled blood, eyes fixed as the hulking shape of a fallen orc - one he'd assumed slain - twitched fitfully.

_Ai! Was the foul creature still alive?_

He breathed deep, trying to center himself. But the act brought him no comfort. There was an edge to the air he had not experienced before, an unharnessed tension, the barest blight of decay that made every pull an offence to the senses.

He shuddered._ Was this what men-folk spoke of so proudly? Taking delight in the sights and smells of battle?_

But it wasn't until a rattling query rose – a soft _aiya?_ - half muffled under the body of the orc that had fallen with him, that the muddied figure of an elf took shape underneath and his body remembered how to move.

He could not help the intake of breath when he pulled the creature off him, sinking down on his haunches as he smoothed back the ellon's raven black hair, trying to lend aid as the elf struggled to breathe. It was Arbellason, sole son of Alyan and Aistaraina. Sister-son of one of his Lord's most trusted councillors. He knew him well, having played together as children in this very meadow.

"…Lindir? How-"

He managed to get him upright, propped up against the trunk of the scarred oak before the warrior waved him off. Drowning him in a flurry of half-legible questions as he undid the ellon's breast plate, searching for the wound as a trickle of red welled across the far corner of his lips.

"Á pusta!" Arbellason wheezed. Slapping his hand away as his head tipped back against the bark, struggling to catch his breath as he did as he was bid. "It is over. I am spent."

A sad note lilted out, a singular warble of unspoken mourning when he recognized what he was seeing. Unable to help the way his eyes lingered on the shattered point of steel and wood that had pierced through a chink in his armor, feeling the dampness spread across his fingers even now as the press of his hand lingered on the ellon's shoulder.

_It was a fatal wound and they both knew it._

"Leave it," Arbellason hissed, grasping his hand as it made tracks back to the horrible tear in flesh and metal. "I go to my kin and mighty company. My regrets are few. The Halls of Waiting hold no sorrow for me."

"Reinforcements have been called," he assured, unsure of how best to comfort him as a ragged curse rang out in the clearing ahead. Recognizing Elrond's voice as something – low and coiling in the pit of his belly – stirred at the harshness in his tone. "I rode alone, there was another sighting to the east, word of a larger company riding in the shadow of the first."

"Lord Elrond?" Arbellason rasped, blinking slowly, like his eyes were deceiving him. Staring towards some point in the deep green of the forest beyond their secluded hollow. Expression slack and pained.

"He fights still," he assured, rising smoothly from his crouch to see over the tips of fallow grains and reedy grass. Assured by the strength in Hadhafang's swings that his Lord was in no immediate danger. "The enemy dwindles," he added, gaze sweeping across the field, the ghost of a satisfied smile tugging at the corner of his lips as the remaining orcs seemed to hesitate, clearly unwilling to face the Elven-lord's fury as a fine sheen of sweat reflected in the bright morning sun.

"Û!" the ellon panted, seizing his arm in a vice grip that wrenched him back down, surprising him with its ferocity as the male struggled to speak around a hacking cough.

"No! We were deceived. There is a _third_ company, they came from the west. We met Galadlant and Lendis on the road. They rode hard through the night to get word to us. There will be another wave. This is not over. This was-"

"A third?" He breathed, mind racing, thoughts tumbling over each other in their haste as a thousand strategies reworked themselves in his mind's eye. _If there was another wave, surely it would be here before the riders from Imladris could reach them? _He couldn't count on their haste. The circumstances were too grave. For all he knew, the next company of orcs were simply lying in wait behind the tree-line. Waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

_Ai!_

He had put out a call to assemble the guard before he'd left. Which meant that even now, they could be riding for them. But he could not count on it. His plan still stood. Only now, more than ever, it _had_ to work. Lord Elrond's lieutenants were competent, with wisdom and experience that far surpassed his own, but their information was flawed. They did not know about the third orc-pack.

He peeked over the tall grass, counting quickly, as Lord Elrond broke through the far circle, trying to reach a pair of warriors hemmed in beside the fallen bodies of their mounts. His lip curled around a curse. Worse still, there were less than a handful of fighters still able to wield a sword, which meant-

"Lindir," the hand on his arm tightened, pulling him down so that they were level. And while something in him longed to pull away, he forced himself to still. Watching as fading blue eyes blinked back a sudden sheen of moisture, struggling to focus as the severity of his wounds made themselves known.

"The urqui, they were different. They were organized, I have not seen such precision, such organization in their ranks for more than an age. They _targeted_ Lord Elrond, this was no border skirmish. When they attacked he was not at the front of the company and still they knew. They-"

His eyes widened. _This was no mere attack. It was a neuma! An assassination! _A foul plan wrought by forces far more sinister than they'd realized. Evil machinations hiding under orc flesh and shadow. He understood now. The multi-prong attack, the control and strategy the orcs were displaying, it all had a purpose. Somehow they'd known his Lord would ride out to meet them. The staggered assault assured that they would cut their forces off from immediate aid, depleting them with pure numbers. Weakening the survivors to the point of exhaustion before attacking with a fresh wave just when his Lord would be the most vulnerable, the most unprotected.

"You have a plan," Arbellason observed, watching him closely. Tone far too sure for a question as for the first time in many minutes, the warrior's gaze sharpened – interest clear.

_Arbellason had always been so good at their childhood games. He had a gift for knowing what you were about to say before the words had left your lips. Sometimes before you knew it yourself. It was an instinctual sort of foresight that had served him well in both games and on the training yard. He'd always thought the ellon would make a good advisor, a natural politician, if he'd only had the patience for it._

His thoughts were a welcome breeze on a hot summer's night. A gentle ripple through brocaded satin as his eyes fell on the horn still strapped to the warrior's side. Taking hold of him in a way that made him forget to answer. _Yes. Yes! That would work! He just needed-_

If he'd been paying attention he might have noticed the ghost of a fond smile twitching across the fallen ellon's lips as he scooped up the warrior's horn and moved away. Skirting through a tangle of nearby corpses until he found its twin. It took him a good moment to gently pry the wood-bound stock out of the elleth's pale fist, clenched tight in death as if her last moments had incited her to call for aid, rather than defend herself.

Her sightless eyes - a rare yellowish-tan – seemed to follow him as he forced himself to focus, liberating all the bodies he could reach – while still safely hidden – of their throwing daggers before scrabbled back the way he'd come. Scoring his kneecaps against the oak's rock-strewn roots as a new group of orcs loped confidently from the tree-line only meters away.

"Boe i 'waen," he whispered, long hair feathering across blood-flecked skin as he leaned down, all too aware of the seconds trickling past as fading blue eyes followed his every move. "I must go to him."

"What can I do?" Arbellason demanded. Confident even now, as dented armor caught in the morning light. Tone strong before catching sight of his expression and sighing, seeing the silent protest in his eyes.

"I would have my last act on these shores be of my own choosing, mellonamin. Whatever it is you ask of me, I will do it gladly," the warrior affirmed.

He paused, tongue darting across his lower lip as the thought took flight. Curling like a nurturing vine around his plans, strengthening them for the better. And just as he had when they were children - nought but elfings trying to stick their ears into matters that did not concern them - he closed his eyes, instinctively seeking the sound of a fellow heartbeat.

Something to soothe his tattered nerves as the sound of crashing steel echoed in the clearing beyond. Only this time, he found no comfort, no thrum of encouragement from what was yet to come. Instead, he pulled his senses back with a start when he found that the beat had grown sluggish, shallow - _slow_.

_Time was short. _

_It had to be now!_

He leaned in, pressing the horn back into his friend's bloody hands, gloves long since torn off as the ellon's wound wept across the hard-cured leather of his braces and leggings. Finding a measure of strength within himself at Arbellason's calm expression as his lips parted and gave flight to his plan.

"Can you be our reinforcements?"

* * *

><p><span><strong>AN #1:** Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – There will be three more chapters, so stay tuned.

**Reference: **

Elleth: term for a female elf.

Hîr vuin: "beloved Lord"/"My lord."

Ai: "oh!" – an expression of surprise.

Aiya: "hail" – used as a call for help or attention.

Arbellason: Elvish male's name meaning: "noble strength"

Alyan: Evlish male's name meaning: "blessed."

Aistaraina: Evlish female name meaning: "blessed and gracious."

Á pusta!": "stop!"

Û!: "No!" or "It is not so!"

Galadlant: Elvish female name meaning: "tree clearing"

Lendis: Elvish female name meaning: "journey-woman"

Ai!: "oh no!" or "eek!"

Neuma – "trap."

Boe i 'waen – "I must go."

Mellonamin: "my friend."


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Tolkien's Hobbit or LOTR. Everything belongs to whoever owns them, my wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** This is the first time writing this pairing, so I hugely appreciate any and all feedback/constructive criticism you have to offer. This is an Elrond/Lindir fic set sometime previous to the Hobbit in terms of timeline.

**Warnings:** Expect slash, canon appropriate violence, angst, mature language, blood, guts, gore, adult babies dealing with their feelings, mild sexual content, hurt/comfort.

**Take that rage (and sing it loud)**

_**Chapter Three**_

The ellon listened closely, asking only a smattering of questions – helping to illuminate a few flaws he had not anticipated and countering them with his own - before nodding, grasping the horn by the strap to rest against his chest. Breathing hard, as if the act itself had exhausted him.

"It has been a long time since your hand has known a sword, mellonamin. You do remember which end is the sharp one, right?" The laugh that followed was thin, with bubbles of red blossoming like fallen flower petals across his lips as the warrior coughed harshly. He felt the back of his eyes prick, threatening unshed tears.

"I will see it done, I await your signal," Arbellason rasped determinedly, closing his eyes as pain etched porcelain-thin lines down the planes of his face. "Now go, our Lord needs you."

"Namárië, gwador. Mára mesta," he murmured, palm to breast in silent thanks as the ellon's color faded, draining the life from eternal ivory-pale as dark lashes fluttered. Watching him rise to a half-crouch, a belt of daggers clutched tightly in his palm as he waited for the nearest group of orcs to look away. Every part of him instinctively on point when a wordless yell exploded through the clearing in the direction where they'd last seen their Lord fighting.

"Quel fara, Lindir," Arbellason returned, eyes gentling closed, perhaps for the last time as he ripped himself away – the force of it akin to a near visceral separation of body and soul – before his feet took flight. Dark hair streaming behind him like a banner as he loosened the vice around his heart and forced his thoughts to the matter at hand.

He would not fail.

_He could not fail._

* * *

><p>The third company of orcs broke through the tree line opposite where Lord Elrond was fighting just as he got into position. His expression felt grim on his face, flirting with a subtle downturn of the lips as he peered through the long grass, waiting for his moment as the foul party crept out of the trees.<p>

Unable to skirt around them, he took a chance and wilted. Sprawling, supine on the grass, digging his fingers into churned earth as the ground trembled. He forced himself to lie still – as if dead - horn and daggers tucked against his chest as the demons approached, casting twisted shadows across radiant green as the sun rose steadily behind them.

_Where were the riders?_

He hardly dared to breathe when two orcs passed above him, so close he could smell their fetid stench, hearing their rough exhales echoing against the chin-guards of their helmets as he felt the wind from each swing of their fists. His fingers dug deeper, curling reflexively in the loamy soil as one of them chuffed out a sickly laugh. Kicking at the bodies of the dead as the closest of them – an elleth with tawny chestnut hair – sprawled against the body of the orc she'd slain. Intertwining darkness and light in a way that made his stomach lurch as the orcs passed him by, unnoticed.

He listened furtively, trying to judge when it was safe to move as his Lord's broad tones rang out, calling for one of his lieutenants. Voice strained and clipped around the edges in a way he'd never heard the like of before as an orcish cry of pain and outrage lilted into the still.

But there was no answer.

Not from his lieutenant.

Not from anyone.

The flowing material of his leggings rippled across his calves, pulling damply at the knees as he pivoted, inching himself forward to a gap in the long grass as he watched the orcs condense. Moving safely out of range in order to engage Elrond and the last of their fighters.

His heartbeat reverberated, hammering against his ribs like drums rolling in the deep. So loud that he swore anything with ears could hear it as the last of the orcs filled the gaps in their ranks, spears out, flattening the ground as thick iron swords glittered darkly.

_Not yet._

_Almost._

He'd had to rearrange his plans, just as Arbellason had foreseen, when they'd come as one. Approaching in a dense circle from all sides, rather than the rough-shod melee he'd been expecting. The purpose was clear. They intended to hem the Elf Lord in, surrounding him just when his forces were at their weakest.

And they weren't wrong. For at that very moment, the last two fighters fell, leaving his Lord alone amongst a field of dead. Whirling in place as he took out a trio of the closest orcs, not yet seeing the fate that awaited him as his cloak whirled around him like a war banner. Rippling and proud as he dodged a crude spear with only seconds to spare.

Fear gripped him - disdainful and basic – as he recognized the near miss for what it was. His lord was tiring. His face was freckled with gore, armor dented and scored from where a stray blow had ricocheted. The resplendent bronze sheen sprayed watery-brown with orc-blood and muddied earth.

There was a certain heaviness to his movements now, a lack of fluidity and grace that had been there before. Clearly tiring as the strain of fighting off orc after orc began to show. For despite all his Lord's skill, there were simply too many. He faced his foe with reservation, a grim sort of awareness that seemed to color the very air above his head as he conserved his strength, attempting to cut a path through the enemy lines and gain the high ground.

_It was about survival now._

His hand tightened reflexively around the pommel of his dagger as the Elf-lord lashed out, jerky and harsh as Hadhafang slapped an arrow out of the air, flinging it aside as the ellon used the undercut of the swing to slash a line behind him, sword seamlessly switching hands as it took out two of the creatures attempting to come up from behind.

His teeth worried at the plush of his lower lip. The pieces were in place, all he needed was an opening. But he had to wait for the right time, hold off as long as he could. _His ruse would only work for so long. If their reinforcements did not reach them in time-_

It wasn't until the enemy landed a blow - causing his lord to stagger, swinging widely with his sword as he struggled to recover – that he realized he could wait no longer.

_Si! Now!_

The muscles in his thighs trembled, straining as he crouched, ready to move. And with far more confidence than he felt, he brought the horn to his lips and blew. Adrenaline spiking as the familiar tones coursed through blood and bone, causing the orcish host to freeze, looking about wildly.

And just as he'd promised, when his horn rang out, Arbellason's was quick to follow. Echoing each other as the enemy whirled about, uncertain of where these supposed reinforcements were coming from. But Elrond looked to the east, _to him, _keen eyes scourging the grasslands as he shored himself up. Feeling as those he and his Lord were one in that very moment as Hadhafang carved a path through the distracted host, making towards the sound.

But by then he was already moving, feeling the weight of the dagger in the center of his palm for a fleeting moment before it took flight. Aiming at the orc nearest his Lord, its curved sword upraised, bellowing with rage.

He didn't pause to see if it found it's mark, moving like lightening on the plains as he used the long grass as cover, sounding again with his horn as he loosed another dagger, then another, each flying from a different position in the meadow as he used the speed of his kin to his advantage, circling around and around the orcish host as they milled about uncertainly.

He was nearly out of daggers, forced to slow and collect them from the fallen – taking a moment to fasten a sword belt around his waist, feeling the queer weight of it against his side as Arbellason's horn rang out once more. He grinned fiercely, losing himself in the heart of it as an unfamiliar song thrummed in his breast, aching to be put to voice.

A laugh burbled in his throat as the fingers of his free hand skimmed across the top of fallow wheat. Letting the kernels flake off in his wake, painting the ground with new life as the orc closest spotted him, alerted by the ripple of silks as he forgot to be cautious, looping close and unbowed. He caught the beast in the neck before it could cry out a warning - causing it's fellows to scatter as they turned to face this new threat.

_What was this feeling?_

_It was intoxicating._

He caught a glimpse of his Lord breaking through enemy lines, his distraction working just as he'd hoped. The ellon's stark black hair whirled, feathering across his fair features as he beheaded an orc, turning his cheek as foul black blood fountained through the air, lips mouthing something he could not hear as he kicked the body away.

He paused, watching as his last dagger flew true, felling a large orc in mid-run, spear glinting wickedly. Childish amusement rose when his Lord paused, sword raised yet no longer needed as the blade caught the beast squarely underneath the chin.

The loose material of his leggings billowed and swirled, kissing his ankles as he sprinted, ducking low. Too fast for an orcish-eye to catch as the spawn of Melkor scented the air, confused as the lingering echoes of Arbellason's horn blared through the melee. He sounded his horn once more, intending to do another circuit, buying time for the reinforcements to reach them, only this time there was no answer.

He paused, one hand steadying the hilt of his sword as the scabbard thumped awkwardly across the back of his knees. Fingers tightening spasmodically around glowing blue as he counted out the seconds.

But there was no answer.

Grief rose thick in his throat.

There was only one reason why a horn of Imladris would not answer one of its own.

He was ripped out of his thoughts by a victorious roar, turning on his heel as the group of orcs caught his scent. He choked on a breath, plan turning to ash in his mouth as he drew his sword – clumsy and panicked as the horn slipped from his hand, splattering his pale silks with tainted earth as he turned to face them.

He only had a moment, a second to reorient himself and consider how to best face the enemy now charging him. But instead, he looked up, finding his Lord amongst the tangle of encroaching darkness. And as the world condensed around him, as impossible as it seemed, their gazes locked, sharing a moment - thoughts expressed by the widening of eyes and dilating pupils before-

He experienced the moment slowly, forced to weather it in all its sullied intricacy before the wind shifted and a warning cry lodged itself in the back of his throat. Emotions spilling over as his Lord exhaled, caressing the air with the syllables of his name the same moment an orc - hulking and swift - came up from behind. Jagged sword hissing through a vicious downswing before his Lord could even register its presence.

And for an ageless second, his world went blank, burying him in searing white.

His very soul screaming foul as the blow connected and his lord crumpled.

Vision sparking as star-light – _so pure it burned_ - blinded him from the inside out.

* * *

><p><span><strong>AN #1:** Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – There will be two more chapters.

**Reference: **

• Mellonamin: my friend

• "Namárië, gwador, Mára mesta": "Be well, brother. Good Journey."

• "Quel fara, Lindir.": "Good hunting, Lindir."

• "Sí!": "now!"


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Tolkien's Hobbit or LOTR. Everything belongs to whoever owns them, my wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** This is the first time writing this pairing, so I hugely appreciate any and all feedback/constructive criticism you have to offer. This is an Elrond/Lindir fic set sometime previous to the Hobbit in terms of timeline.

**Warnings:** Expect slash, canon appropriate violence, angst, mature language, blood, guts, gore, adult babies dealing with their feelings, mild sexual content, hurt/comfort,

**Take that rage (and sing it loud)**

_**Chapter Four**_

The fury that fueled his steps was as cold as steel and twice as sharp as his feet fairly flew – weightless and beyond grace – to the point where bronzed steel met trampled grass. He couldn't feel his face, nor the expression on it. He didn't want to. Fearing what he might find there as he lashed out, sword scoring through a surging tide of orc-flesh only to re-emerge pitch-black and bloody.

It was far too easy to let part of him reach for it. Embracing the feeling's burning touch as the need for completion – _for vengeance_, for something he could re-mold with his fists and the blue-tint of his blade - coursed through him as if the emotion held within it a life of its own.

And perhaps it did.

For as he threw his shoulder into the next swing, he felt it breathe.

Feeling its chest rise and fall over top of his own as the forest shivered and warped.

It was a vexing yet insistent sort of darkness that pressed against his very soul. Promising refuge even as its jaws opened wide around him - making to swallow him whole. And perhaps a braver ellon might have let it. Tangling with the darkness until it gave way and let itself be leashed, reined by a bridle of sheer will and pureness of heart.

_But not him. _

For even now, in spite of everything, its whispers frightened him. He tossed back his head, long hair swirling around him. It was pervasive, cloying, _wrong!_ It was the vehemence behind the realization that gave him the strength to recoil, pulling back as the inky tendrils twitched, a primordial beast thwarted. Regrouping only to press against the darkest corners of his mind, as if in reminder.

_But he did not cave._

In fact, instead of succumbing, of allowing that sickly, growing thing mastery over his mind and heart, he _let_ it chase him. Riding the ripples like an encroaching tide, using its momentum as he fought his way to his lord's side. Barely feeling the recoils of the blows he landed, ducking and weaving - blade blurring through the air as Elrond slipped – boneless and quiet - into the long grass.

"Hîr vuin!"

He skidded to the ground beside him, sword falling from nerveless fingers as he cradled his Lord to his breast, using the momentary lull as a fresh wave of Urqui loped from the trees. His fingers trembled as he brushed the hair from his Lord's face, searching for the familiar thrum of life under his skin.

"My Lord Elrond, echuio," he murmured, shy lips pressing against a bloody temple. Nearly crippled by the relief that flooded through him when he found the beat to be steady. "Goheno nin."

The ellon's armor dug into his skin, grounding him as his soul sang. There was no blood. It seemed as though the fates were truly with them both. His Lord had been struck by the flat of the blade, knocking him unconscious, but otherwise unharmed.

_Thank Arda!_

He lifted him in his arms, lips pulling back in a silent snarl as the approaching orcs shook their spears, howling and loud in their mockery as he gripped the older ellon tightly. A small, long buried part of him purring in misplaced contentment when the natural incline caused his Lord's head to rest in the crook where his shoulder met with the pale arc of his throat.

How long had he cared for him? Loved him?

He knew not.

It mattered not.

He only knew that it had been this way for over half an age.

Perhaps it had started when Lady Celebrían sailed. He'd been young then, nothing more than a youth in the eyes of most. But he'd recognized the lilt of song and the tenor of both lute and harp from a young age. Quickly surpassing his masters and pleasing the ears of his betters in a way that quickly found him a place in his lord's halls.

It was the lady of the house herself who was the first to uncover his other talents. That looked beyond the music and song and recognized other skills that could be easily honed - assets he hadn't known he'd found pleasing until she teased them out. Politics. Management. Book Keeping. Seeing to his Lord and Lady in almost every respect. And as the years passed, his responsibilities grew.

But he never forgot the way his Lord always called on him first. His low voice rumbling like a gentle, distant thunder as he bade him to play long into the evening. Drowning them both in his silent enjoyment as he sang to his lord songs of his own creation. Finding his imagination inspired whenever he was in his great company.

Perhaps that was why he came to him unbidden that first night, on the dusk of the Lady's departure. And why he'd rarely strayed far from his Lord Elrond's side since.

Lady Celebrían had been an elleth of great strength and beauty, with an unquenching love for all that surrounded her. But the decision to sail was made for her. Unable to heal in mind and spirit after the horrors she'd endured during her capture by orcs in the Redhorn Pass, she was forced to set sail or fade.

The hole she'd left was beyond measure – beyond sorrow.

So he'd taken to his lord's chambers with his lute and harp. Feeling the misery of his lord - keen as a knife blade - as if it were his own. Long had he played. Longer still had they sat quiet together, in silence that had eventually grown companionable between them. His steady presence had eventually led to gentle conversation, friendship that had grown and shifted on its own until quite without him realizing it, his lord's sadness lifted.

He'd nursed his love like a rare flower on the cusp of blossom. He'd kept it secret. Kept it safe. Housing it on a pedestal which he carefully tended, but felt he had no right to reach.

_Until now. _

"I am here, my lord," he hummed, feeling a song rise in his heart – all haunting gratitude and nerves – as he rocked him slowly. Never in his wildest dreams had he thought he would be granted this much. To simply have him in his arms, feeling the solid weight of him against his chest.

_How cruel was it that the gods would offer him now what he'd so desperately longed for? _

His heart was heavy, pressing like a weight against his very soul as he looked up, feeling the slick of orc blood smear across his skin when he gripped his Lord all the tighter – cheek to cheek as he coiled protectively around him. Looking up as the foul party stalked close.

_He had failed._

_The reinforcements had not come._

And as if it'd sensed his thoughts, an orc, larger than the rest and marked by what counted as leadership amongst their ranks, - with a crude circular plate of iron around its left arm – pushed its way to the front.

The dark tenor of its laughter prickled across his nape, making him shiver inside his own skin as it scented the air, jagged teeth crooked and cruel as it stared him down. Chuckling darkly as the bolt that had been run clear through its curved ear sought to blind him with the reflection. Letting the moment lengthen, as if waiting for him to speak, before flinging a clawed-hand to encompass the clearing at large.

His fingers tightened around his Lord's shoulders. Taking comfort in the honest scent of him as he tried to ignore the panic and horror rising in his breast.

"Âdhûn," the orc crooned, marring the air with a tongue that had not been heard in more than an age. _Black Speech._ "You are all alone, little one. Such a tasty treat. I think I will have you." It hissed, snapping its teeth at him as a blackish tongue slicked out, waggling horribly.

"We came for the sharku golug… the old one. But you will be a nice diversion," it jeered, cocking its head and taking a step closer only to wheeze at his flinch. Taking pleasure in his reaction as its fellows barked with laughter, shifting in excitement as their spear points wavered.

"Ufum," it growled, inhaling deeply. Unsheathing its blade and balancing the pommel in the center of its palm, letting the elfish blood that colored it streak down in thin crimson ribbons. "You are ripe with it. _Good_. You should be. Now put down your stick and I might let you live…for a little while."

The only answer he gave was to rise in a half crouch. Letting his fist sink deep into the dirt as he levered himself up. Shifting his weight to the balls of his feet as he relinquished his burden, allowing the ground to welcome him back - his lord's head safely cradled in the long grass. His lips held firm on the words he wished to fling, not wanting to give the foul thing the satisfaction as unfamiliar curses and oaths simmered within him.

"Mirdautas vras!" the orc spat, clearly enraged at his choice, but pulling back as the ranks advanced. Blood-shot eyes glittering in the shadows before it finally turned, melting back into the crush of bodies like it had never been there to begin with.

He found Hadhafang through the tangle of armor and silk as he struggled to his feet, chin up as defiance and determination rippled through him. Silent and sharp as the morning sun warmed the circlet that still rested across his brow.

_He would not die whimpering on the ground._

_He would stand and protect his lord._

_For that love he would fight. _

_Fight for as long as he was able._

It was with that thought that he raised his lord's sword - facing down the enemy as they circled close, spears shaking in time to some unearthly rhythm - a hair's breath from surging forward, blade level with his cheek just as his masters had taught.

The morning sun was warm on his face, caressing his skin as a fair wind blew in from the north, surrounding him in the comforting scents of hearth and home. Strengthening his heart as his Lord stirred underneath him.

_He was an oncoming storm._

_The moment of still before the lightning strike. _

_He was the intake of air before the arrow sprung forth. _

_He was an elf of Imladris._

_A summer-son of the Valar._

_His song would not go out unheard._

* * *

><p>And it didn't.<p>

For the reinforcements that were riding - hard and fast for that very clearing - heard well his cry of rage. Able to separate the clean notes of ferocity and fear as they slicked the air with gracious intent. Unknowingly rousing memories of ages long passed as a shiver rippled through the riders of the Eldar. Feeling the exclamation as though it'd been uttered from their own throats as the words echoed long past their prime.

And while they'd been pressing their horses beyond all hope of endurance before, his call spurred the riders – many who'd fought in the great battles of Angmar and Gondolin long ago – to whisper to their mounts to make haste to meet him.

* * *

><p><span><strong>AN #1:** Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – There will be one more chapter.

**Reference: **

• "Hîr vuin" beloved lord/my lord.

• "Echuio": awaken/wake up.

• "Goheno nin": sorry/forgive me.

• Redhorn Pass/ Lady Celebrían: Celebrían was Elrond's canon wife, mother of his three children. She sailed west a year after being captured by orcs in the Redhorn Pass within the Misty Mountains, traveling to visit her mother and father (Celeborn and Galadriel) in Lothlórien. She suffered a poisoned wound that healed, but her mind and spirit did not, forcing her to sail and await her husband in the Undying Lands. Their separation was about 500 years, ending when Elrond sailed with Gandalf, Bilbo and Frodo at the end of the Lord of the Ring's trilogy.

• "Âdhûn." – the orcish word for "alone." (In Black Speak, the language of Mordor.)

• "Ufum" – the orcish word for fear" (in Black Speak.)

• "Sharku golug" – the orcish phrase for "old elf" or "old elf-man" (In Black Speak)

• "Mirdautas vras" – an orcish phrase meaning "It is a good day to kill" (In Black Speak.)

• "Eldar": elvish word for 'elves' basically.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Tolkien's Hobbit or LOTR. Everything belongs to whoever owns them, my wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** This is the first time writing this pairing, so I hugely appreciate any and all feedback/constructive criticism you have to offer. This is an Elrond/Lindir fic set sometime previous to the Hobbit in terms of timeline.

**Warnings:** Expect slash, canon appropriate violence, angst, mature language, blood, guts, gore, adult babies dealing with their feelings, mild sexual content, hurt/comfort, reference to an open romantic relationship. – The final two chapters are told in Elrond's point of view.

**Take that rage (and sing it loud)**

_**Chapter Five**_

The lamps burned low in the Valley of Imladris. A herald to the late hour as the changing of the guard proceeded silently, much like it had since the labors of his kin had carved out a place for the last homely house amidst the ancient, sea-facing cliffs. It seemed an acceptable backdrop, pleasing to both the eye and the senses as Lord Elrond kept a dutiful watch over his patient.

He remembered well the scent of freshly hewn pine and salted rock. For he had labored to build these very walls. He remembered every nail he'd driven home, every rasp of bark against his bare shoulder as he'd hefted trunks of sawed off evergreen and oak. It was built to be a haven, a place of tranquility and belonging for all his kin. Where the young and old alike could flourish and _grow_.

It stood now as a silent sentry. One of many that stood guard over Middle Earth, nurturing and guiding their hard won, watchful peace. Or so he might have said before the events of three days ago. Now he was uncertain. Something ageless was stirring. Something beyond his skill to detect. Something that had long slumbered but was not yet ready to show its face.

He let the ages seep past, memories infused with the sights and smells of these very halls while they were in their infancy. The air had felt different then, crisp and fresh with the vigor of new growth and untapped earth. _Young. _He knew every inch intimately. His skin knew the rasp of its hand-carved stone – from bannister to flaring marble canopy. He existed here, body and soul, in a way he hadn't anywhere in Middle Earth.

He leaned back in his chair, expelling the breath he'd unknowingly been holding, emerging from his thoughts as the ellon he was tending shifted restlessly. Making a muted sound of protest as the covers of the bed kept him softly pinned – ensuring he did not disturb the dressings on his wounds.

_Lindir._

This time when he inhaled, it was purely an indulgence. The air was richly steeped with the subtle allure of the night blooms wafting in from the lower gardens – perfuming the air with calming scents. Fading the blight of blood and sickness from the room as the ellon's color slowly started to improve.

_Lle fiose amin,__lirimaer._

Word had spread quickly. Enough that when they returned, a crowd was waiting at the entrance to the stables. He could feel their sorrow as one of his lieutenants kept him upright in his saddle, so many had been lost. Friends. Comrades. Sons. Daughters. Fathers. Mothers. He felt their loss keenly. And yet, within that single wounded ellon, a flare of hope still burned.

He'd been barely conscious, head throbbing, vision a blur of unwrought color and exaggerated movements. But he could still recall the hush that had travelled through the onlookers when Lindir's prone form had been gentled onto a stretcher, surrounded by healers as they bore him quickly to their halls. Checking the severity of his wounds as the younger ellon let go of a sharp cry, regaining himself briefly as they jostled the byre in their hurry.

He had reached for him instinctively, gloved hands caressing nothing but air as his sons had materialized at his side - twinned whirlwinds of concern and anger that still smelled of the northern wilds and weeks amongst the company of Rangers.

He'd overheard much as he'd tried to center himself, allowing others to support him as they helped him off his borrowed horse, letting the healers unbuckle his dented armor and ply their trade. Unable to help his sigh of relief as a cool compress found the soreness that still throbbed at the base of his skull, forced to remain still as they parted his hair and daubed a soothing cream to the growing bruise.

He heard many of the whispers when he'd closed his eyes, guarding his thoughts as the echoes of battle and far fouler things threatened to overwhelm the steady peace the natural magic of the valley gifted to all the stepped foot within it's borders.

How Lindir had taken command of the moment and made it his own, strategizing and smart despite his quick departure from the stables. How he had been found, a sole ellon left standing amongst a field of dead, wielding his Lord's sword like it was an extension of his arm – an extra step to an ancient, primordial dance that each and every one of them knew better than breathing.

_His gentle Lindir. _

His brow rose as the thought aired out. Watching the rise and fall of the younger's chest, bruised and graceless under a veritable mountain of herb-packed bandages. Against the headboard and soft mattress, he looked suffocated and small. It was an observation he did not relish. In fact, his expression twisted, finding himself ill-prepared to deal the emotions that rose up in its wake as he wrestled with the wrongness of it.

But once again, it was Lindir himself that saved him. Because it was the ellon's expression that remained true. For even now - deep in the grips of what mortals called true sleep - determination lined every feature. Furrowing his brow if only slightly as he shifted restlessly, perhaps sensing his presence.

He hesitated, reveling on the unfamiliarity of the emotion as his hand moved without permission. Alighting down the curve of the male's cheek to smooth the crook of a knuckle across the frown lines. Each circuit was more soothing than the last, addictive and alluring to a part of him he rarely indulged as the frown gradually eased. The soft, barely there rhythm of skin against skin lulling him back to sleep.

_Amin sinta thaliolle e dagor._

_And he did._

It was simply the incongruities between the two that gave him pause.

His fingers steepled themselves in front of him, the very tips resting against his lips as the smooth length of his unbound hair curtained his fine features. Affable. Peaceful. Even tempered. Quiet. Gentle. All of them were words he might have used to describe his steward before the events only recently passed.

And in truth, all of them still held true.

His senses were not false.

There was simply a new layer.

A new side to a familiar reflection.

The unsteady reality he found himself forced to face was that Lindir was not so gentle as he'd assumed and now certainly no longer as innocent. It was a loss he mourned deeply. The ellon had never known the taste of war. He had never heard the songs of battle and bloodshed. Such things distressed him. Much like his beloved wife, their souls had always been twinned in their distaste for violence.

Which is what made this willing ferocity all the more confusing.

This was more than the fierceness and idealism of youth.

This spoke of centuries seeped in watchful silence.

Of words left unsaid and a love long kept.

_And in truth, he hadn't had to stray far into either of their thoughts to discover the answer._

* * *

><p><span><strong>AN #1:** Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – There will be one more chapter after this, I got distracted with other things and really wanted to get at least something up for you this weekend, so here it is!

**Reference:** Elvish translations.

• Lle fiose amin, lirimaer: "you surprised me, lovely one."

• Amin sinta thaliolle e dagor: "I know your strength in battle."


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Tolkien's Hobbit or LOTR. Everything belongs to whoever owns them, my wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** This is the first time writing this pairing, so I hugely appreciate any and all feedback/constructive criticism you have to offer. This is an Elrond/Lindir fic set sometime previous to the Hobbit in terms of timeline.

**Warnings:** Expect slash, canon appropriate violence, angst, mature language, blood, guts, gore, adult babies dealing with their feelings, mild sexual content, hurt/comfort, reference to an open romantic relationship. – The final two chapters is told in Elrond's point of view.

**Take that rage (and sing it loud)**

_**Chapter Six**_

He hummed quietly, thoughts lingering on a melody his steward had often played for him. It was only the absence of the familiar chords that made him realize how long it had been since he'd called for Lindir to play for him.

It wasn't that he hadn't wished for it. It was more that he hadn't wanted to impose. It seemed so petty a thing after his steward had spent long hours working at his side. Attending to the matters of both his great house and the valley at large, while still finding the time to fuss over his personal affairs.

The ellon's duties had increased steadily over the years. Especially after his wife's departure. Growing to a point where he felt uncomfortable calling him hence for something as simple as his own pleasure. The habitual avoidance was not lost on him. But for something that had once been a passing curiosity - a sampling blink of sensation and long buried emotion, had spawned into long series of events that spanned back through the centuries. Bold and unmistakable when viewed in hindsight as the love his steward bore for him had only strengthened as the years passed.

_He had been blind._

_And willfully so._

He'd had Lindir moved from the Halls of Healing to his private chambers after he'd regained consciousness. Bidding his council to send out riders to scout for information beyond the safety of their borders. This attack had been the most costly in recent memory and he fully intended to understand the cause. This was more than it appeared and could not be ignored, if only to dissuade similar incursions in the future.

That had been three days past and still Lindir slept. It was to be expected, considering the circumstances. But still, even he could feel his patience beginning to wear thin.

_He would have his steward at his side once more. _

_For it seemed as though they had much to discuss._

In order to heal the body he'd had to walk the paths of the injured ellon's mind. It had been an intimate experience, rewarding and tantalizing all in one. For even as he'd carved a path through the rot and wild tangles - rooting out the fell poison and sheltering the light of him as the guttering flame slowly grew stronger - he'd also seen the memories.

He didn't need his Lieutenant's careful allusions and downright pointed comments on the depths of Lindir's dedication to form his understanding. He'd felt the emotions as if they'd been his own. He'd been one with him in the saddle as he'd leaned close, cheek brushing against Alqua's neck - whispering pleads of speed and encouragement into her twitching ear as his long robes rippled behind them.

Those leading the reinforcements had lingered much on his deeds. Coming out of the trees to see Lindir standing above him, protective and fierce, swinging his sword in lancing blurs of ferocity and desperation as the orcs surrounded him. Closing in on all sides as Lindir danced within the space of tramped green that was left to him, trying to keep them back as each slice of his blade came back stained with the freshness of a new kill.

He had experienced each moment alongside him, as he'd walked the paths of healing. Feeling the peculiar sensation of dark hair feathering around him – flaring like the wings off a great bird of prey - hawkish and watchful.

He had felt the sting of every blow, even though Lindir himself seemed unaware of them, tunic lanced with ruby tatters that slicked down his pale skin to highlight the wounds on his side and outer thigh. Prisms of color and wrent flesh where orcish blades had inevitably found their mark as his steward struggled to hold back the terrible host – knowing full well he was failing - but never once shrinking back.

He had lingered long over the feelings that had risen in both their breasts as the blade whirled with him, body finally abandoning the steady structure and liquid grace of lessons long taught for the fierceness of battle and the blood lust that came ripe with it.

Lindir had been lost to it.

_One with it._

Not seeming to notice the blaring call of the elf horns, nor the arrows that'd rained thick from the sky. Instead, he'd bared his teeth, kicking out as an orc snapped back, beheading the one that tried to charge him in a single stroke. Using the momentum to whirl in place, flipping backwards off the headless orc's chest to engage the survivors. Coloring the air with a wordless cry as the reinforcements burst into the clearing proper, bow and blade joining the fray as the foul host milled about in panic.

It was only when their forces thronged around him, closing about him protectively, that Lindir stumbled, falling to his knees in the long grass. Feeling the pain then as he looked down, uncomprehending at the hilt of the dagger that'd been sunk deep into leanness of his chest. So close to the heart of him that even then – caught as he was in the backwash of the ellon's memory – he hadn't been able to mask the surge of protectiveness and worry. It had expelled him from the younger's thoughts as Lindir shifted, calling out for him in the depths of his fever-sleep as though his mind mourned the absence.

Even if he didn't have the sight nor the power to move through mind and heart to heal the soul within, the steel of Hadhafang's blade still sang with the ruin his steward had wrecked on the enemy. He spared a glance to his great sword – now freshly oiled and polished, positioned in a place of honor upon the pedestal beside the window – queerly tempted to firm his palm around the handle once again. Feeling a strange craving to be one with the echoes as Lindir made a soft sound – still held fast in the sheets - tossing his head back and forth restlessly before his features smoothed and he stirred no more.

The Peredhil side of him, so oft buried with its mannish desires and baser wants, stirred as he remembered. Possession. Desire. Passion. All these things he felt for him, perhaps more. It was a long banked fledgling thing, thin and tenuous in a way that reminded him of the first stirrings of love he'd once borne for his wife. Heat spilled through him as he allowed himself to consider the possibility.

_It was new growth._

_Uncertain of its place, but hopeful all the same._

For it was not just the memories of the battle that had rushed to greet him when he'd entered the steward's mind, but a myriad of sensual expressions lost amidst the half-dark of a wounded mind. He saw two bodies intertwined, graceful and wanton. He saw his own face – ruined with pleasure – lost to the exquisiteness of the sensation as Lindir's head dipped low, clever tongue curling around the base of him as he dug his fingers into the ellon's hair and _pulled_.

He bore witness to a thousand such phantoms. Each more alluring than the last.

The irony was, that in sense, he'd actually foreseen this.

For long his dreams had been thus.

Host to a pale form moving below him, against him, coloring the air with pleads for more as his fingers held fast to narrow hips. Finding himself on the cusp of his pleasure quickly, unable to make it last as his lover surged to meet him. Chaste yet wicked, with expelled breaths that felt of centuries sighing.

But the identity had always been hidden.

Or perhaps he had not dared to hope.

He knew not which.

He settled back in his chair, mind at ease, course decided.

He would pursue Lindir.

Take him as his own in body as well as soul.

If his steward would still have him, of course.

He found himself tracing his fingers across the pale inside of Lindir's wrist, either unable or unwilling to stop once he'd started despite the twitch of awareness from the slumbering ellon below. He favored the swath of skin with a gentle flurry of learning touches. Mapping his features as the blunt of his nails feathered across the icy-blueness of veins and the barely there scrape that marred where a deep cut had once stood. Craving the days ahead in a way he had not experienced for more than age.

A small smile spread as memories from years long past rose and fell like a gentle tide. Gone as she was from these shores, he knew his wife would not begrudge him his happiness. For as devoted as she'd been their family and union. After their children had been born, she'd shared her love freely. Occasionally taking lovers, both elleth and ellon alike while encouraging him to do the same.

At the time, he'd seen little need, content to bask in her happiness as their love had grown all the stronger. It wasn't the way of all elves, but it was custom enough for their kind that it raised little concern. His wife was a source of delight for many, for she found joy in making others feel thus. And he wanted only to see her fulfilled.

He had decided long ago that he would not be the reason for the light and laughter sparkling behind her eyes to dim, certainly not for the sake of petty jealousy. He'd neither wanted nor needed another in his bed, with her he'd been content. No one else had stirred him like Celebrían and, naturally, the love she had for him was above all others.

_Until now._

* * *

><p>He kept watch throughout the night, meditating on the conversations to come as Lindir slept, gaining strength with the usual robustness of youth as the morning light stained the waiting sky with a brilliant tapestry of orange and pale pink. He allowed his lids to lower, granting himself the indulgence as he leaned back in his chair, allowing the sounds of the waking world to wash over him until-<p>

"….My lord?"

He smiled, watching as the steward blinked himself awake, eyes at half-mast as if the very effort of keeping them so was tiring. He inclined his head, hand to breast, low and reverent enough that even half-awake, Lindir startled at the difference.

"Bain aur, Lindir," he murmured, feeling a frisson of heat tingle down the base of his spine at the rough quality of his steward's voice. Finding himself completely unprepared. "How does this day find you?"

The uncomprehending blink he received was doe-like. Soft and pure in its innocence as Lindir stared up at him, as if processing where he was and how he'd come to be in his lord's chambers. And perhaps he was in need of rest himself because even this he found unexpectedly pleasing. Rejoicing in the simple pleasure of being able to speak to him once more as comprehension flared in the back of his steward's gaze.

"The attack! The orcs!" Lindir exclaimed, trying to roust himself from the blankets only to find himself pinned, weakened by his hurts and stilled when he let his hand rest – palm down and intimate – across the span of the ellon's chest, trying to calm the pulse that raced underneath.

"Esta," he assured, reluctantly removing his hand as he settled back in his chair, attempting to school his expression into something peaceable and calm – wishing to sooth the ellon's frayed nerves as he looked about wildly. "The lower council is looking into it. Worry not. It will reveal itself in time. This is not a riddle to be answered now. Nor by you. Not when the other verses remain firmly in shadow."

The slight nod he was granted in return was more an incline of the head, but it was enough. Choosing to remain silent as Lindir shifted, propping himself up gingerly against the pillows before he took the glass of water he offered.

"Many are dead," Lindir observed after a long pause, eyes closed, more statement than question as after-images of his steward's memories of Arbellason flickered through his mind's eye. Half cast in shadow and the redness of his life's blood as Lindir smoothed back his sable hair, doing what he could before the warrior faded – retreating to the Halls of Waiting to be called again. As was the way for all their kind who were felled before the white shores beckoned.

"Yes," he agreed, feeling the loss of each as if they were his own as he considered his reply. Making a silent gesture for the ellon to slow as Lindir downed nearly half the glass before he could admonish him. "There are many to be mourned. And yet, much to be thankful for, I believe."

Somewhere close by, the beginning strains of song floated in from the lower gardens, gifting the silence with its soft melody as two female voices rose and fell. Perfect in their harmony before one tapered off, laughing about something he could not hear before the two moved away, enjoying the fragrance of the morning blooms as silence hushed back – reminding him what he'd spent the last few days meditating on.

_He knew it was not the right time, nor place._

_But he found he could not stay silent anymore. _

_Not when they'd lost so much time already._

_There was still fragility to immortality. _

_As much had been well proven during the events of the past few days._

"There will be much time to speak in the coming days, so forgive my selfishness, mellonamin," he began, earning himself Lindir's attention – startled again, but endearingly so - as the endearment aired out pleasantly between them.

"I have been neglectful, blind. You have always brought me great comfort, Lindir and I fear I have squandered that. I did not realize how selfish I was these long years, not until I saw you. Not until I woke up with the scent of you upon me. Your cries. Your blood. The echoes held within," he held back a shudder, self-criminating and pleasured as a myriad of memories from that day – both his and Lindir's – curled lazily to the forefront.

Below him, his steward's mouth opened, but no sound came forth.

"Apparently I have been blind for a long time," he continued, forcing himself not to examine the expressions flickering across the injured ellon's face – disbelief, embarrassment, uncertainty, even a deep unabiding affection that was already hesitantly putting down roots, hopeful for more - as he made to continue.

"I am told that there is perhaps even a betting pool," he admitted, immediately heartened when - despite his hurts – Lindir was still able to summon the energy to blush. Strangely pleased when he sensed that the ellon was not completely opposed to the idea itself, merely the public nature of it.

_So fastidious, his dear steward. _

_So conscious of protocol and propriety. _

It might have been vexing from anyone else. But with Lindir it was simply one facet of many. Endearing and appeasing to his soul, especially when his ire had been rousted. Lord or not, he was certainly not without foibles.

Encouraged by Lindir's receptiveness, he found himself caught up in it, cresting a rising burst of emotion he had not felt in centuries as his hand drifted down to feather across his steward's open palm. And like the unexpected chorus to a familiar song, he offered up the very heart of himself – unashamed but still starkly bare - vulnerable in a way that differed inherently from what had transpired on the battlefield.

_It was a boon he gave to remarkably few._

_His wife._

_His children._

_And now, Lindir._

"Long has it been since I've walked the winding green of the lower valleys. Longer still since I have wished to dance under the moon and welcome the spring stars. When you are strong again, will you join me?" he asked, struck at his own boldness as a flash of something warm, wholesome and enticingly familiar flared to life in his breast.

If there was tension in the air, he did not feel it. Seeing all he needed to as Lindir stared up at him, throat working visibly through a hesitant swallow. Yet bold enough to gift him with the brush of a thumb. Palm curling underneath him as the ellon rubbed a tentative circle into the crux where his thumb met with his forefinger.

_Such a strange intimacy._

_His soul sang with it._

"I would join you now, my lord. If only my legs did not feel like lead weights," Lindir returned, sending him a meaningful look as a smile spread easily. Joyous in its honesty and no small measure of frustration as the younger ellon huffed with impatience.

He matched it without thought. Unable to help the thrum of amusement that burst forth, intermingled with relief and rising emotion as he considered the coming days with no small mark of excitement.

_It had been more than an age since he'd been stirred so!_

The light blush that graced his steward's cheeks was vivid – almost lurid in its promise. Startling him with the sheer focus of it as Lindir stared boldly back. Expression speaking for him, even as the ellon's expression grew slack with twinned thrums of pleasure and exhaustion.

It was only when Lindir shifted, murmuring sleepily before gazing up at him through half-shuttered eyes that he forced himself to pull away. Not willing to compromise the ellon's recovery, no matter how much he wished to continue. Resolving to collect himself as best he could as he checked the bandages wrapped around the younger's middle and smoothed the rucked covers.

"Sleep Lindir," he answered softly, humbled by the honest trust and love he found there as he rested his hand on the ellon's shoulder. "We will talk later."

He leaned down - unable to resist - enjoying the fettered gasp that burst forth when his lips brushed chastely across his steward's brow, sensing the younger ellon's eyes fluttering closed as the need for rest sought to reclaim him.

"Rest, amin beleger. Be assured that the world and I will still be here when you wake."

And luckily for them both, it was.

* * *

><p><span><strong>AN #1:** Sorry this took so long! Writing Elrond is an amazing but characteristically daunting experience so these last two chapters pretty firmly kicked my ass. Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – This story is now complete.

**Reference: **

• Bain aur, Lindir – "Good morning, Lindir."

• Esta: "rest"

• Mellonamin: "my friend"

• amin beleger: "my mighty one"


End file.
